‘I’ve had a little too much sherry, Mr Beck.’
‘It’s Finnegan.’
‘You told me no one ever calls you that. That’s a funny name, by the way.’
‘Finn for short. I don’t mind.’
‘You also told me no one calls you that either.’
‘I can see you tomorrow, Sheila. I need to go now. I have an early meeting, like I say.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘You can fuck off then. Don’t let me keep you.’
The phone line went dead.
Beck didn’t have too much time to think about it. The phone rang again almost immediately. A private number. Mrs Claxton ringing back? He hesitated before answering, then waited… For a long time there was the low hiss of a digital vacuum. Beck did not speak. And the line went dead again.
Fifty-Six
Beck did not sleep well, not enough to fall beneath the layers of his subconscious, to go down deep to where they waited. He tossed and turned throughout the night, unable to resist thinking of the woman whose memory filled this room. Like a dog unable to resist a bone, he kept going back, gnawing at that memory. He could almost hear her voice in the darkness, could almost feel her body next to his. But he knew that he was fooling himself, because he only wanted her, only really, really wanted her, when he could not have her.
When the morning light finally crept into the room, lingering, as if sensing the mood, deciding whether to stay or leave again, he was grateful that the night had passed.
There was no food in the house, so once he’d showered and dressed, he left and walked down to the village. Beck did not know the surname of Sammy, only that he was a Christian, from the city of Fes in Morocco, hence the name over the door: ‘Fes Café’. Sammy was giving change to an attractive woman at the cash register. He was too busy with her to notice Beck. His eyes were still on the woman as she turned and walked to the door. Finally he looked at Beck, and a wide smile crossed his bearded face.
‘My friend, where have you been? I have missed you.’ He walked down and leaned over the counter, reaching over and taking one of Beck’s hands with both of his. He whispered, ‘Did you see that woman? My God. The most beautiful woman I have seen all day, I tell you.’
‘It’s only eight thirty, Sammy.’
Sammy’s smile broadened. ‘Yes, I know. It will be a good day, I tell you. So, where have you been? Please tell me.’
‘I have been away.’
‘You are back now. To stay?’
‘No,’ Beck said. The two people behind him shifted restlessly. It was a Saturday, and Sammy’s staff did not start their shifts until 10 a.m. Beck ordered a sausage sandwich on brown and a large black coffee.
Sammy grimaced, reaching for the bread, ‘I tell you. I have twelve types of bagel, six hams, pancakes with Greek yogurt, mixed berries, sweet jam and Harcha from my own city. People love my food. And you, you always order sausage sandwich.’ He shook his head.
Beck sat at the window counter and gazed out. Everything was the same but different: his home, this café, this city. All the same, but different. Because he was no longer part of it.
Something had changed. Imperceptible yet real. He realised now this was not home. This had never been home. Because Beck didn’t have a home. The thought depressed him slightly. Okay, made him feel a little sorry for himself. Was it too much to ask, he wondered? To want to belong? To want to be loved? Because Beck ran from both. And sometimes he needed both. Desperately. He knew that. But still, it made no difference. It didn’t stop him running.
On the wall next to the window was a framed photograph of a desert, orange sun in the background, sand dunes stark and angular and beautiful in the foreground. Beck looked at it. Across the bottom were words written in Arabic, beneath them the English translation: He who follows the crow will be led to the corpses of dogs.
Beck stared, slightly shocked at its malevolence in such benign surroundings. Why had Sammy put it there? He’d often heard him say that to appreciate beauty one first had to know ugliness; to experience joy one first had to feel sadness. Beck thought of crows. He thought of Cross Beg. He thought that all crows looked alike. So how was it possible to tell who was the killer in a town already full of crows?
He wanted to change the inscription to one that read: To follow the crow one must first become a hawk.
Fifty-Seven
Beck alighted from the taxi at the security barrier of Garda HQ, presented his identity card to the guard at the gate house. The guard ticked his name off a list on his clipboard.
Garda HQ, also known as The Depot, was a sprawling affair on the edge of the Dublin metropolitan region, situated in the largest public park in Europe, the Phoenix Park. It was built during the early 1840s, and the original stone facade had remained unchanged since that time.
The Assistant Commissioner, Finbar Sullivan, opened the office door himself when Beck knocked. He was in civilian clothes: sneakers, cargo pants and sweatshirt. Beck had only ever met the Assistant Commissioner on a couple of occasions. He had the build of a heavyweight boxer; indeed, the Assistant Commissioner had boxed for many years in tournaments all over the world with the Garda Boxing Club. His nose was a little off-kilter and a scar ran down the side of his cheek. He looked more like a criminal than a police officer. His grey hair was tightly shaved on a head that sat on a squat, powerful neck.
‘Beck. Come in.’
There were two others in the office, and, like Sullivan, they were in civilian clothes. One he recognised as Chief Superintendent William Healy, a small, wide man with large black spectacles, the commander of Garda Internal Affairs.
‘You know William,’ Sullivan said, indicating the other person. ‘This is Superintendent Will Leahy, from Corporate Affairs, who is also a trained lawyer, by the way. Take a seat, Beck.’
The office was similar to the office of Superintendent Wilde in Cross Beg, exuding that same sense of history: Georgian windows, marble surround fireplace with brass centrepiece, a similar big antique desk with a leather inlay. In a glass case over the fireplace, an old Dublin Metropolitan Police helmet was housed.
The Assistant Commissioner sat behind his desk, tented his hands beneath his chin. He observed Beck for a long time before he finally gave a weak smile and spoke. ‘You have been exonerated fully from any responsibility in the death of officer Jason Geraghty. I want to begin by telling you that right away.’
Beck heard those words and felt as if he had been released from a decompression chamber. He crawled from that decompression chamber now, and sat in his chair, holding himself straight, as if the weight of a thousand tonnes had just been lifted from his shoulders.
‘We gathered a lot of evidence,’ the Assistant Commissioner went on. ‘You were unfortunate for a number of reasons, Beck. Primarily because it was you. You know what I mean?’
‘You mean, because I’m…’ He searched for a word, and smiled, because he couldn’t find one.
‘Erratic, I’d call it,’ Chief Superintendent Healy said.
In other words, Beck thought, someone perfectly placed to take the blame.
‘Unfortunately, Garda Geraghty was not all that he seemed,’ Sullivan said. ‘He was having problems, money problems. He did a good job giving the impression that he was a reliable and committed member of the force, that all was well in his life, but gamblers are very cunning, I’ve always found.’
‘Gambler?’ Beck said.
‘Yes. He owed money, fifty thousand euro, and that’s what we know of. He’d also remortgaged his house, his family home, I’d like to emphasise. No, he wasn’t what we thought he was at all. He killed himself, Beck.’
‘He what?’
‘He killed himself. But that is, and will remain, unofficial. For his family’s sake. His life insurance policy was worth half a million. The only people who know about this are in this room, and there it will stay.’
‘Which is why we need you to sign this.’ It was Superintendent Leahy. He slid a sheet of paper and
pen across the desk towards Beck.
Beck picked the paper up, looked at it. It was a legal document. He read the first line in the stream of tightly packed legal text, took up the pen and signed it. He slid the paper and pen back across the desk to Leahy. They looked at him, surprised he had signed without comment.
‘How?’ Beck asked.
Sullivan scratched his head. ‘Officer Geraghty’s weapon, as you know, was a nine-millimetre Sig Sauer P226. It was discharged three times. The weapon retrieved from Byrne’s body was a Czech CZ revolver. However, Byrne was struck only once – a direct shot to the centre of his forehead. Geraghty was a sharpshooter. He’d received specialist military sniper training at the Curragh, so he didn’t miss. Once maybe, but never twice. The other two nine-millimetre bullets fired from his weapon were pulled from the wall to the right of Byrne’s body. Why? To scare Byrne enough to loose off his magazine, we think.
‘The way we’ve established it,’ the Assistant Commissioner went on, ‘is that officer Geraghty confronted Byrne as he came down the hallway. Byrne was at the top of the stairs. Geraghty approached, weapon drawn, we have confirmation of this from CCTV in the doorway. The CCTV doesn’t extend to the end of the hall – privacy matters to do with another business on the first floor. We can see Geraghty with his weapon, shouting, animated, even agitated, I’d call it. We availed ourselves of the services of a lip-reader. What he’s saying is, “Shoot, you fucker, or I shoot you, go on, shoot you fucker, SHOOT!”’
‘Officer Geraghty was hit five times, in the torso, chest and neck. Random shots, Byrne just blasted away. Geraghty didn’t die immediately. He put one in Byrne’s head first, one expert shot, killing what he thought was both Byrne and his secret. A desperate scenario devised by a desperate gambler. But it worked.’
Beck wondered about something. ‘The CZ is a standard revolver, isn’t it?’
The Assistant Commissioner nodded. ‘It is.’
Beck thought of his dream, the clicking sound, that of a revolver chamber turning. ‘And that’s the way it happened,’ he said.
Sullivan nodded, raising his eyebrows. ‘Fuck, Beck, you don’t make it easy. There were empty cans in the boot of your car. What were you thinking?’
‘If I may,’ Superintendent Leahy peered down at Beck. ‘None of this actually happened. It couldn’t have happened because we can’t let it happen. Regardless of circumstances, a commanding officer intoxicated, an armed commanding officer, over a firearm’s unit… Fuck sake, no, we can’t let that out. None of this happened.’
‘I wasn’t drunk,’ Beck said, but wished as soon as he said it that he hadn’t.
‘Tell me you didn’t say that, Beck,’ Sullivan said.
‘He did.’ It was Leahy.
The Assistant Commissioner sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. When he opened them again he looked at Beck with grim intent. ‘Yes, this organisation is inefficient at times. Yes, we can be lazy. Yes, we can be wasteful of resources. Yes, we are often accused of taking only serious crime seriously. Beck, what can I say? But you produce, like a good cow, you keep on giving. I don’t want to alienate you so much that you walk away. With the advent of Pulse, we can produce spreadsheets on everything, as you know. Your homicide success rate is 96 per cent. X-factor territory, Beck.’
‘But,’ Beck said, ‘I can’t sing for shit.’
The four men laughed, a sign of the enduring camaraderie that all men in uniform shared.
The Assistant Commissioner became serious again. ‘By the way, Beck, you are hereby restored to the rank of inspector. We’d like you to return to Pearse Street, too. How do you feel about that?’
Inside his head a voice went ‘Yes!’ He had to stop himself from jumping to his feet and punching the air.
‘I think that would be good,’ he said in a forced calm demeanour. ‘I’d probably like that, yes.’
‘Only not just yet,’ Sullivan continued. ‘You have business to attend to in Cross Beg. How is that investigation going?’
Beck gave a brief summary of it.
‘I spoke with Superintendent Wilde this morning,’ the Assistant Commissioner said, ‘before you arrived. Is it manageable, Beck? Or is it getting out of hand?’
‘A very good question,’ Beck said after a moment.
Superintendent Leahy coughed. ‘Don’t we have a round of golf to play, gentlemen?’
He was a lawyer, Beck reminded himself. This conversation was making him feel uncomfortable.
Fifty-Eight
In the taxi back to Ranelagh, Beck suddenly changed his mind, told the driver to turn around and gave him new directions. The driver shrugged and performed a U-turn in the middle of traffic, stirring up a hornet’s nest of flashing lights and blaring horns. Beck told him to drive slowly past the house, and when he saw there was only one car in the driveway – a small Fiat – he told him to pull in further along the street and wait. Beck got out and lit a cigarette, walked slowly along the pavement, furiously smoking before tossing it into the gutter, and turned into the driveway. He walked with purpose to the front door and rang the bell.
Part of him hoped it wouldn’t be answered, that he would have no choice but to turn round and walk away again. But a part of him, much bigger by far, wanted to see her, wanted to hear her voice, wanted to feel her eyes on him again.
The door opened and she was standing there. She had no make-up on; her skin was clear and fresh. It didn’t look like she was struggling without him. She looked remarkably well.
‘Natalia.’
She took a sharp intake of breath, like a swimmer breaking for air.
Beck cleared his throat, and delivered a line from the top ten of the corniest lines ever. ‘I was just passing.’
She folded her arms tightly across her chest. A reflex action: protection, safety; leave me alone.
‘This is not a good idea. Why are you here?’
‘Like I said. Really. I was passing.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Goodbye, Beck.’
The door began to close.
‘I know you’ve been ringing me.’ Beck was aware of desperation in his voice, like a hormonal teenager, and he was angry with himself for showing it. There was nothing worse.
Clunk! The door closed, and Beck was looking at a gleaming brass knocker. He felt like grasping it, and banging, banging, banging until the whole world could hear him and she had to answer.
He turned away slowly and started back down the drive. But he could feel something, and knew what it was. It was her eyes, on his back, staring right into him.
He reached the top of the drive and was about to turn onto the street outside.
‘Beck.’
He turned.
The door was open, and she was standing there.
He walked to her. Followed her into the house. Into the living room. Where she sat. Legs crossed. Tightly. Arms too. A fortress. Looking at him, her eyes peering out as if behind peepholes. Physically, there was nothing that he did not love about this woman. Just the very sight of her made him tingle, made him start to get hard. She had something. It wasn’t beauty. Because she was pretty rather than beautiful. But it was…
Something.
‘You’ve been ringing me,’ he repeated.
She hadn’t offered him a seat. He was perched on the armrest of a settee. There was a family photograph on a shelf behind her. He tried not to look at it.
It was the first time he had been in this house. He thought it a little old-fashioned. The carpets, the dark-wood furniture. It was not what he imagined. He considered her more… daring.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
She ran a hand through her long hair. She had on a loose dress, no hint of the body beneath it that drove him wild.
‘You know how it is,’ she added. Again, she fell silent.
‘No. Know how what is?’
She turned her head away, staring out the window into the back garden. Beck could see a pond, a jet of water rising from the centre.
Not what he imagined at all.
Was this her house? Or his? The chief superintendent was always one to exert his authority. And that, Beck knew, extended to his marriage. He knew that was why – part of the reason why – she had sought an affair. An escape. He didn’t care. Then or now. He knew what he wanted. Which suited them both just fine.
‘Seems a bit odd,’ he said, ‘when you say you don’t want anything to do with me.’
Her head snapped round to look at him.
‘Wrong,’ she said. ‘I can’t have anything to do with you. There’s a difference.’
‘So… You ring to what? Tease me? And yourself?’
She smiled, the little crease lines beside her eyes filling with folds of flesh. He loved that smile.
‘Maybe?’ she said.
Silence descended between them.
‘Why not not tease?’ he said.
‘What does that mean? Not not tease?’ The smile again. ‘I think you better go, Beck. He’ll be home very soon.’
He’ll – she was not bothering to use his first name.
Still, Beck did not move.
She turned towards the window again.
‘I won’t ring you again. Promise. Now go.’
Fifty-Nine
The train arrived in Cross Beg. As Beck walked along the platform he saw her standing at the end. He nodded as he drew near, confused about whether to stop briefly and say hello, or just keep walking.
‘I took a chance,’ Mrs Claxton said. ‘That you’d be on the train. Can we talk?’
‘Um… yes, but I… Yes, we can talk.’
‘I can give you a lift. You going back to the house?’
‘Yes. I am. Thanks.’
Mrs Claxton made small talk as she drove, cutting off any hint of silence before it could take hold. Beck sat back, content to gaze out the window. At the house he laid his bag on the kitchen floor and they sat at the table. He wanted her to leave again as quickly as possible. He could see the all too familiar signs because he usually suffered from them himself: the bloodshot eyes, the rattled nerves, the inability to sit still. She had the mother of all hangovers.
Where She Lies Page 17
